


Exhibition

by 7PercentSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hiatus angst, Photography, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 10:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7571485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exhibition<br/>/ˌeksɪˈbɪʃ(ə)n/<br/>Noun<br/>1. A public display of works of art or items of interest, held in an art gallery or museum.<br/>2. A display or demonstration of a skill, aptitude, quality or emotion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this four chapter fic will make more sense if you have read my story The Shooting Party first, so you can understand who the OC people are and their relationship with the Holmes brothers. In my stories, Mycroft found more than a goldfish. I owe the prompt for this to my friend, Anyawen, who is more than a 'colleague' now.

"You don't have to come. Really. I will understand if it is too painful for you. And I will explain it to her, so you don't have to."

Caroline's words were designed to be comforting and reassuring. He knew that on an intellectual level. But every time she raised this particular topic, he felt a horrible emotional discomfort, a clash of guilt and responsibility. Of all the people he had to keep in the dark, she was the only one that he had to really struggle over- the urge to tell her was so strong. As a result, he had simply not been willing to talk to her about it- not at all, lest he be tempted to give into his weaknesses. As the months had gone by, she had realised that he would not talk about it, and she stopped raising it. Not ever. So, the subject of Sherlock's death had become a mutually reinforced 'no fly zone'.

She was sitting across from him in the living room of the South Eaton Place townhouse. The two of them had just entertained the German ambassador and a number of British ministers to a dinner party. It had been an exercise in diplomatic communication; messages exchanged behind the cloak of civility and conviviality. Mycroft excelled at it, but he had been grateful for her assistance. Events like these went more smoothly when the host had a companion every bit as competent as he was at managing conversations delicately. The presence of wives, girlfriends and significant others made the evening go more swiftly- and successfully. Mycroft was reminded yet again of what a social asset the widowed Lady Caroline Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, would be for him.

There had been a quiet period in the immediate aftermath of Sherlock's exposure as a fake and the subsequent media frenzy about his suicide. Social contacts avoided him, and he had some sympathy. The whole debacle was something of an elephant at the dinner party table. He'd been happy enough to lay low for a while, until memories faded a bit. Proprieties had to be observed.

Mycroft suspected a certain royal hand behind his rehabilitation. Somewhere after the six month anniversary, invitations started to re-appear in his post. That made it easier for his work-related social gatherings like this one to take place without fear of his invited guests having to invent excuses.

Tonight's guests were gone, and it was late. Across from him with her high heels off and her feet tucked up on the chair, Caroline was a slim late thirties blonde woman with the unusual combination of intelligence and elegance. She was dressed in an understated black Alexander McQueen gown. He knew without asking that she'd chosen the British designer label to convey a subtle patriotic message. Looking at him now, her blue eyes were conveying gentle sympathy, but also a bit of concern.

 _Always so perceptive._  Mycroft knew that she would be reading his discomfort, and be misunderstanding it. That was inevitable, given the fact that she didn't know what he knew and therefore believed that Sherlock's suicide was real. How many times over the intervening months had he wondered what her reaction would be, if and when she found out the truth? The  _lie_  was so fundamental that he wondered if she would ever be able to forgive him. It was one of the reasons he had delayed making any decision at all about a marriage offer. Until he knew for certain, until Sherlock was either back home safe or confirmed dead by MI6, he had to keep his relationship with Caroline in this strange limbo. As he watched her sit back in the silk upholstered Louis XVIth chair and raise her brandy balloon to take a tentative sip, he stifled again the urge to tell her.

How long would she wait for him? Other far more eligible bachelors than he were paying court to her.  _Yet another reason why I want this escapade of Sherlock's to end soon._  He looked down again at the stiff invitation card, which he had been turning over and over, unconsciously communicating his discomfort at its message.

_Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount Sherringford_

Is invited to attend the private opening of

A photography exhibition by

Ara Herbert

Atlas Gallery, 49 Dorset Street, Marylebone, London, W1U 7NF

17 March 2013 8.30pm 'til late

The Honourable Lady Arabella Victoria Sophia Herbert, the Countess of Pembroke's only daughter and heir to one of the largest and oldest estates in the UK, had broken with her family's Oxbridge tradition, choosing instead to go to the University of Westminster. Her mother tried to enlist Mycroft's aid in trying to dissuade her from pursuing the BA (Hons) in Photography. "Ara needs some male stability. Try to talk some sense into her."

He'd had no more influence than she had. Mycroft sometimes wondered if Ara had talked to Sherlock about her decision. Caroline had tried to limit their contact before her daughter went to university, but the headstrong Ara was perfectly capable of disregarding everyone's advice if it suited her. There was something rebellious in her character that drew her to Sherlock. She had taken the news of his suicide badly, according to Caroline, choosing to go to New York for an internship immediately after the end of her last term, and therefore missing Sherlock's funeral. She'd been there for more than eighteen months, and was flying back just for this exhibition and a few weeks' holiday.

He made his decision. "Of course I will attend the exhibition. It would be churlish of me to decline. You must be proud of her achievements."

"My pride in her will not be affected by your decision to stay away. And Ara probably invited you more out of curiosity about our relationship than any other reason." This was said in a very matter-of-fact tone. Caroline knew as well as he did that Ara and he had not spoken since she left England.

He smiled. "Then the curiosity is mutual. I am interested to know whether her time in New York has helped her."

"There is no need to meet at the gallery for that; let me set up a dinner when she's home properly."

"No, it's alright. Really."

She wasn't convinced. "Don't make the decision without thinking about it. I haven't seen the final selection she's made, but you know that lots of them will be the crime scene work she did for her major project."

"Have you seen those photos then?" He put the question to her mildly, curious to know to what extent Ara had been willing to share her work.

"No, she's always been cagey about showing me anything- probably because she still thinks I don't approve of her taking up photography. This will be the first time. That alone speaks volumes about her confidence now. But I have to warn you, I know that Sherlock will be in some of them, perhaps even a lot of them. And, of course, there will probably be that portrait of him for Country Life. She's still proud of that."

He let a tiny smile form. "Does she know, I wonder, that he agreed to have that taken only to irritate me?"

She matched his smile. "They shared that in common. Both like to pull our tails." Then the smile faded.

He realised that she was still having trouble using the past tense when referring to Sherlock. He understood the feeling, only in a different way. He had to be so careful- to the point where he reminded himself every day that Sherlock was as good as dead; the odds of him returning safely had been very long at the beginning, and were growing longer with each passing day. The thought made him close his eyes in a reflex and take a deep breath.

Once he was able to continue, it was with the rather sensible comment, "Well, at least the announcement of the Public Inquiry should stimulate curiosity in Arabella's exhibition. He won't be thought of as a pariah for much longer. That should help sell some photos, I suppose."

He could see curiosity blossom in her mind. Even so, it was very delicately voiced when she asked "Whose idea was it to push for the public discussion now?"

He shook his head. "I'm not at liberty to say; it wasn't mine. My motives would be suspect. But despite the inevitable re-hashing of some things I would prefer not to re-live, I am glad it is going ahead. He deserves that, at least."

She nodded. "About time that the truth came out. Both the police and the press have so much to answer for."

Mycroft knew that Caroline was convinced that Sherlock had been driven to take his own life by the press coverage about his supposed frauds. He could not forget the first evening, after Sherlock's suicide hit the news. She had telephoned from Wiltshire, but he had told his butler that he would take no calls, not even hers. Two and a half hours later, she had turned up on the doorstep in Mayfair, and his housekeeper had let her in, despite his orders that he was not to be disturbed. She had tried to offer sympathy, to console him, but he'd thanked her for her kindness and said nothing more. He had sat there in his chair in the library, silent but dry-eyed. He had never felt so miserable, helpless and angry at one and the same time. He didn't trust himself to speak.  _How dare you do this to me, Sherlock?_

Mycroft had no real choice but to lie to Caroline to protect his brother's secret- or risk losing his job, his vocation in life, if anyone found out he told her the truth. Despite arguing vehemently against the entire scheme, Mycroft had been out-manoeuvred, and Sherlock's audacious plan left him no choice but to lie. Twenty months later, it still rankled.

He decided to lighten the mood, lest she be able to detect too much of his still smouldering resentment. "I assume you've forgiven her for her choice of career then? Enough to accept the invitation yourself."

That earned him the smile he wanted. "Of course. She's always been pig-headed and stubborn. Ever since she was a ten month baby, she's wanted things her own way. I can't argue anymore. She's grown up so fast, and I have come to realise even more how precious every moment with her is to me."

Mycroft knew that Caroline had been aghast at Ara's choice of subject matter for the final project. The two weeks that she spent with the Metropolitan Police's Murder Investigation Team was hardly the sort of photography that her mother wanted her to pursue. There had been arguments about it. Caroline had tried to bribe and cajole Ara into taking an internship at one of the fashion houses. "It's great money, and you will be able to establish your credentials with future patrons wanting portraits."

To suggest fashion as an alternative genre was nothing short of a criminal offense in Ara's eyes. Caroline recounted her reaction to Mycroft, getting the tone of outrage just right: "I'm not some bloody paparazzi or stooge playing up to supermodels' egos, mum. The very idea of selling out like that is positively disgusting." He had tried to console Caroline- and then made absolutely sure that DI Lestrade knew just what would happen to him should a single blonde hair of Ara's be damaged while she was on work placement with the Met.

As with most things, Ara got her way. And the Major Project had gotten her top marks, then the New York internship at Magnum and now this exhibition. All her own work- Caroline had washed her hands of the whole business, and not pulled a single string to help. Perhaps because of that fact, Mycroft knew that she was actually quite proud of her headstrong daughter's determination to make her own way in her chosen career, irrespective of the weight of the inheritance.

"Come to the Diogenes and we will have a light supper there first, before going on. It wouldn't do to get there too early. She will have other people to impress, rather than you and me."

He could see her thinking about it, wondering if finally a corner had been turned. He deduced that she was thinking that she just might be able to talk to him about Sherlock. He was dreading that. He had no wish to compound the lie. But neither would he refuse to see what Ara had produced. Mycroft was not a coward. He knew that he could no longer postpone it. It was time to confront some inner demons.


	2. Chapter 2

When DI Lestrade came up Dorset Street, he wondered if Ara Herbert had chosen this gallery because it was only two streets east of Baker Street and only four blocks from 221b. It would be just her style.  _Irrepressibly clever, if a bit too direct._

If the invitation had come last year, he might have been tempted to say no. Facing the visual record of those few weeks when she had done a work placement with his Murder Investigation Team raked up too many old memories, ones that he'd buried along with Sherlock. The fact that she had talked her way into the role that spring, and been so highly professional in her approach, also stood in her favour. He'd never got to see the photos she’d taken. Once the two weeks were over, she'd disappeared back to uni and he'd not heard of her again. She'd promised to show the team the portfolio once it had been graded, but Sherlock's death intervened and, well, no one was in the mood at the Met to even think of tracking her down.

More than a year and a half later, it was a different climate. The police's own internal investigation had cleared the Consulting Detective- all of his cases had been checked and re-checked. The public disclosure of the facts set off a firestorm of recriminations. The Chief Superintendent of Detectives was forced to resign in disgrace. The Press Complaints Council took months to consider what, if anything should be done to address the issues the case raised.

And now, the Public Inquiry had been announced. Greg knew that Ara's exhibition would catch the interest of the press, if no one else. The girl's timing was impeccable.

The March evening was cold, and the streets were not busy. This area of Marylebone had a lot of smart low-rise residential buildings, most of the ground floors were retail shops or offices. He could see the Atlas Gallery ahead, lights blazing and a crowd of people visible through the large glass windows. He might once have been tempted to turn away by the thought of having to deal with people's inevitable questions, but saw a sprinkling of police uniforms, so decided to press on. He was still working on his rehabilitation. While the union had seen to it that he wasn't demoted in rank, it had taken a long time to work his way off the Homicide Assessment Team and back into his old MIT.

 _Time to network._  If other Met officers was willing to attend an event that actually celebrated a certain Consulting Detective's involvement, then Greg was certainly going to play his part.  _Which is probably why Ara invited me in the first place._  The thought raised a wry smile.

He was greeted at the door by a young man dressed in black, who showed him where to hang his coat. When he emerged into the brightly lit room, he was seen by Ara, who quickly ended a conversation she was having with what he guessed was an academic by the clothes he was wearing.

She came up to him and stood on tiptoe to give him a social kiss on the cheek. "I am so glad you could come. I never did get a chance to show you the results, nor thank you properly for agreeing to me elbowing my way onto your crime scenes." She snagged a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and handed it to him.

He was looking at the young woman with some astonishment. The last time he'd seen her, she was wearing a baggy blue forensic suit over a pair of torn jeans and dirty sweatshirt, her long blonde hair pulled back in a rather fierce ponytail. She was wet, tired and had been with them half the night, working on the scene where the murder suspect had been arrested- a public park in West London. The contrast between that memory of her and the vision in front of him was stark. Her little black dress was a perfect fit, showing off an attractive figure without flaunting a thing except an exquisite taste in clothes. The high heels set off a very nice pair of legs that he vaguely remembered being permanently hidden in wellies when she was with the team. And the hair was now down, straight and shining a honey colour that enhanced her blue eyes.

"Um, I'm not sure this is the right way to say this, but you're, ah…. You scrub up well, Ara."

She laughed and her cheeks turned a slight shade of pink. "Well, I wouldn't have worn this to a crime scene, would I?"

She put her own glass down on the table and picked up a catalogue from the pile, thrusting it into his left hand. "Right, here's the drill. Ground floor is New York- new stuff, nothing to do with you, but hopefully still worth a look. First floor is the Met, that's stuff you will recognise. The top floor is…well, I'll leave that to your imagination. That floor is by special invitation only- tell them who you are and you'll get in."

He was about to ask her what was so special about the top floor, but she didn't let him draw breath. "The catalogue shows the prices, but forget that. Anything you want, it's yours. Just mark this with your choices, put your name on the front cover and leave it behind, in that tray. It's going to get crazy; I think I invited too many people and I may not have time to talk later." She looked at him now, carefully. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't said yes. There is no way to say thank you, except to say it. So, thank you."

He looked a little embarrassed. "I agreed to the placement because…"

She cut him off. "I know why you agreed. It had to be because of whatever Sherlock told you. Well, I'd thank him if I could. But I can't." Her voice cracked a bit on that last word, so she stopped. "Now get out of here before I start crying and wreck my make-up."

Greg smirked, " _Sentiment_. That's what he'd say. Well, I miss him, too." He raised the glass of champagne, in a silent toast. "To absent friends."

She recovered her glass to clink it softly against his. "Yeah."

"Speaking of which, I don't suppose John Watson's here?"

"I invited him, of course. Got an email declining. I didn't really expect him to come, but I wanted him to know."

"Yeah, well, I'll raise a glass to him, as well."

She pointed up the stairs. "Sally's already up there looking at the Met photos, so why not join her?"

Greg decided that the new 'stuff', as she called it, could wait. He wanted to see what she had made of her two weeks with the team. He climbed the first flight of stairs, but slowly, enjoying the framed black and white prints that were hung in the stairwell. They were of New York, he thought, not recognising any of the images. Not travel photos; these all had people in them. Not traditional portraits either, more like street scenes of different groups of people. A few were well-dressed, walking down wide pavements laden down with what he guessed were designer labelled shopping bags. But the ones that caught his eye were of ordinary people- talking, gesticulating, living a life that was far from glamourous. One that caught his eye was in what looked like a restaurant kitchen- a whirl of steam, heat and food, with the people working with concentration and yet camaraderie. Another one was of two blokes on skates with kneepads and helmets chasing a hockey ball right through a crowd of pedestrians in business suits, oblivious to the presence of human obstacles. There was a taut energy to her work; he felt himself drawn into the photos.

Lestrade found Sally on the first floor- an elegant square room, well lit, with photographs artfully displayed on white walls. She was standing with a group of other officers in front of a large print- this one was shot close up and cropped to show just a serried rank of shoulders, all wearing black Met dress uniforms, with the silver embroidery on the shoulder boards taking centre stage. He remembered it from Ara's first day. He'd tried to contact her to tell her to come the day after- the whole of the Division was at a funeral for one of their colleagues, who had been caught by a suspect carrying a knife, and killed. She talked the widow into letting her attend, and stood in the background taking pictures.

Greg greeted the others and shook a few hands, smiled at the faces of colleagues who had once shunned him as 'the guy who worked with the fraud'; he would never again fully trust the people at the top- so quick to judge, and on such flimsy evidence. He heard a baritone voice in his head-"What did you expect, Lestrade? They're all idiots."

Sally turned, noticing him behind her. "I like the title." He peered in at the small white card beside the photo, and started to fumble in his jacket for his reading glasses. Sally rolled her eyes. "It's in the catalogue, too, in larger print. It says  _Respect for the Fallen_. I hope Janson's widow got a copy."

They moved on to the next photo, which was at a crime scene. At night, in an alleyway lit by portable lamps, the shot showed an anonymous figure in a forensic blue suit, rummaging through a tool box of equipment. Both he and Sally recognised the figure that no one else would- it was Philip Anderson. Greg felt a pang of regret. Anderson had been a casualty of the internal investigation. He'd actually been accused of planting some of the evidence that was used by the Chief Superintendent to justify the attack on Holmes. The accusation had been disproved, but he'd been sacked in the meantime. After he was cleared, they had offered him a back office job that he wasn't prepared to take.

From being a critic Anderson had become a convert- and was now part of the public campaign to reinstate the reputation of Sherlock. Lestrade had, for old times' sake, met up with him occasionally, but it was rarely a happy occasion. The thought made him uncomfortable now, and he glanced away, noticing another person, an elderly man in a rather shabby suit, standing in front of a large image, this one taken on a panoramic, horizontal line. He walked over to examine it more closely. Again a night scene, in black and white mostly; the sheet covering the dead body was the only element of colour. It was blue, and drew the eye to it. The swirl of activity around the body had been captured in blurred multiple exposures. Only the body was still. The effect was startling, and Lestrade leaned in to look at it more closely. The title was _Rest in Peace._

He remembered that night. It was wet, and the reflections of water drops on the lens added even more to the impact. The body beneath its sheet was the only still thing in the picture.

"It's beautiful." The old man commented quietly in heavily accented English.

An odd word to describe such a macbre scene, but Greg could only nod his agreement. It  _was_  beautiful. This was more than photo-journalism; it had become art.

"She's given him the respect his killer didn't give him."

Again, Lestrade nodded. "Yes. The victim takes centre stage. Always."

The old man gave a heavy sigh, and rubbed his face. "That's my son under the sheet. I needed to see this. She was right to invite me. I know now the police treated him with respect. That's important."

Lestrade searched his memory for the name, and eventually found it. "Mister Kazemi?"

The old man nodded, then took his eyes away from the photo to look at Greg. "How do you know my name?"

"I was there that night we found your son. I might well be one of the blurs," he added a bit lamely.

"Then I must thank you." He seized Greg's arm and shook it warmly, causing the catalogue to slip out of his hand and hit the floor with a slap. The man's face had transformed into one of great happiness. "You found his killers and brought them to justice."

He gently extracted his arm, and picked up the catalogue. "Actually, it wasn't me who solved the case. Sherlock Holmes did that. And he exposed the Iranian extremist group that was responsible for ordering your son's killing."

The old man looked back at the photo. "I know that. But he's not here to hear me thank him."

Greg smiled. "He wouldn't have appreciated the thought; he didn't solve crimes to be thanked."

"A selfless man, then."

Greg had no answer. Then Sally came to his rescue when she called out, "Gov, look at this one!"

"Excuse me, please." He left the old man contemplating the photo, and joined Sally across the room. This one was of the MIT room back in New Scotland Yard. Entitled  _Cracking the Case_ , it was an angled shot of the evidence board for the Kazemi murder case. The depth of field had been carefully judged so that the evidence was not quite in focus, unreadable- it had been almost the only condition he had set on her photography: protect the victim's right to confidentiality.

Instead the camera caught an arm and a hand, with long lithe fingers pointing to a particular piece of evidence- a crumpled take-out delivery flyer they had found on the floor of the Jehangir Kazemi's flat. Greg and Sally both knew who the arm in the suit jacket belonged to, and why it was pointing to that item. Sherlock had just explained it all, in one of his amazing streams of deductions.

Ara had captured that moment on their faces when Greg and Sally realised what he was saying was the solution to the case. Sally's showed her staring at the board with incredulity, almost as if a magic trick had just been done in front of her eyes. Disbelief warred with envy on her face, but it was relief at finding a killer that won out. Beside him Sally said quietly, "God, if that is what he saw on my face every time he solved another case, then I am not surprised he hated me."

Greg shook his head. "He didn't  _hate_  you, Sally. That would be sentiment and he always tried not to let it get in the way. You need to stop beating yourself up. What happened, happened. A lot of people were wrong about him. You've at least had the heart to admit it now."

She pointed at the photo, "Maybe, but just look at your face there; I  _know_  that you never doubted him. That should have been enough for me."

The photo caught Greg looking off camera at the man who had solved the case for them- well, he couldn't define it, but the expression on his face summed up everything he had felt about Sherlock. Amazement, delight, pride and genuine affection – it was all there, neatly caught in black and white, printed and framed in front of him. Looking at it gave him a lump in his throat. He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his lip. "Yeah, but I wasn't able to protect him, was I?"

"As if anyone could. We all knew he'd take one too many risks someday."

He nodded and the two of them walked on to investigate the rest of the photos. The whole process had been caught on camera- from discovery, to doorstep questioning in the neighbourhood, the meticulous forensic work at the scene and back at the lab. The mortuary photos were suggestive more than sensational, avoiding the usual stereotypes of bodies under sheets or with the hideous Y stitches exposed. Instead, Ara had managed to catch Molly Hooper's face as she worked with a bone saw on a body. The angle of the shot was almost as if the victim was holding the camera, and it captured the conflict of her compassion for the dead person warring with the professional distance that she had to maintain to do her job. It reminded him yet again of the pathologist's surprising depth of character that all too often got lost in her shy awkwardness around people. Ara caught the truth of her somehow, and revealed it in the picture.

It rather summed up her remarkable achievement- a gauche young photography student would have gone for Hollywood style gore and drama, making the work look like something out of a cop show or just gutsy photo-journalism to sit alongside some tabloid headline. But, these photographs weren't like that. Each one put a person in the centre, doing their best to solve a crime. It wasn't glamorous, it was hard work- some of it quite tedious. One photo caught Sally at her computer, still typing paperwork reports into the HOLMES2 database when the rest of the room was empty, her desk lamp the only light on in the office.

She was smiling at the title,  _Due Diligence_. "I want one of those. I'll use it to explain to my mum why I never seem able to make it over to her house for dinner. Damn paperwork is enough to drown me."

The room was starting to fill up, and Greg realised he was ready to deal with what was upstairs. He figured it would be about Sherlock. While he knew it would bring up a lot of memories, it was time to lay a few ghosts to rest. "Shall we investigate, Sergeant?" She nodded and they headed up the wooden staircase to the top floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Ara was getting an earful from a journalist who was gushing about her Magnum work. She was starting to get antsy about what was going on up on the top floor. The gallery's ground and first floors were buzzing with guests enjoying themselves and the photos. She'd done the meeting and greeting stuff that had to be done; she wasn't arrogant enough to think that a lot of people were really there to buy photos. Many had come simply because of who she was or because she had asked them to come, rather than out of any deep love for photography. But there were enough serious critics and potential buyers to make her more than happy. And for the first hour and half she worked the crowd professionally, saying what had to be said to the people that mattered to her career. Everything she had learned in New York about gallery exhibitions was coming together for her tonight.

She'd greeted her mother and Mycroft almost an hour ago, handed them a catalogue and told them the routine. "I'll catch up with you on the top floor, but there are some people I need to talk to first." It was the same message that she had said to each of the nine people who were getting access to the top floor of the gallery. If John Watson showed up, then he would get in, too. Up there, it was a private viewing, to see what their reaction was. If they agreed, then she would open it to the public. If not, then this would be the last time those photos would be seen. She was incredibly nervous- not for the photos on the first two floors; those she knew would sell themselves. But getting the agreement of the people who cared about Sherlock to let her photos of him loose? Well, that was a whole lot harder.

All of which made it difficult for her to concentrate on the _Time Out_ journalist who kept talking about how London compared with New York, wanting her to pick sides.

"When are you going to do your Magnum thing for London? Don't you think we have interesting enough subjects here in your own capital city?" He was short with a rather weasel-like face that did little to endear him to her. Even his squeaky voice made her think of a small rodent-like creature.

Ara knew that saying the wrong thing would appear in print and come to haunt her. So, she had been working hard to bite back the acerbic reply that wanted to escape. Finally, she couldn't wait any longer. She grabbed him by the elbow and steered him over to the Metropolitan Police Force's Head of Communications and butting into a conversation he was having with an attractive young lady. "Charles, do me a favour. Explain to…" She glanced at his press badge to get his name, "…Mister Santon why the Metropolitan Police keep London safer than the New York Police force keep New Yorkers; he's after a comparison angle." Before the suited Met spokesperson could even blink, she was off, striding up the stairs, giving her blonde hair a flick, as she set her shoulders.  _Into battle._

Alistair, the Atlas Gallery attendant manning the door into the top floor, greeted her with a smile. "The nine on the list are all here, Ara. I've got to say, you left the best for last. I sneaked a look before the doors opened. They're  _gorgeous._ "

She gave him a smile, but wasn't reassured. She knew the photos were great, but then the attendant didn't know the subject. And the reactions of those who did know him would tell her whether anyone else would be allowed to see them. She wanted them to agree to her letting Sherlock's spirit go free. This was a kind of exorcism. She was determined to chase out the demons which had destroyed his reputation and kept people silent about him. Since the police internal investigation cleared his cases after his death, Sherlock had been trapped in a strange sort of purgatory- neither an angel, nor a demon. It was time to let her photos show the world what a marvel he had been. Ara took a deep breath, and pushed open the door, striding in with a confidence that she didn't feel.

Unlike the lower two floors, this gallery space was not a brightly lit square. She'd used lighting sparingly. The effect was to eliminate distractions and give a nocturnal feel to the space.  _He liked the night._  The room was oddly shaped, too- an L-shape rather than square, and the roof eaves sloped in, making the place feel more intimate. There were plain wood benches where people could sit and contemplate the photos. In the background, just loud enough to be heard was the sound of violin music. She'd picked a series of Bach pieces for solo violin, which helped evoke the spirit of the man.

Mrs Hudson was the closest to the door. She'd been helped up the three flights ("It's my hip dear; still giving me grief.") Ara had got Darren to give her his arm- the most handsome of the Gallery attendants- and the landlady had suddenly been able to ascend without effort. Ara had got the measure of the woman when she'd stayed at Baker Street with Sherlock during the work placement- for two weeks, she'd kipped on the sofa, rather than stay with friends. She'd explained it to her mother- "Sherlock and John are in and out at all times of the night and day; I'd miss too much if I relied on either of them to phone me when something was happening."

Mrs Hudson was now standing in front of a photo of Sherlock. He was facing the wall over the sofa, which was strewn with the chaos of his evidence wall. The smiley face peeped out from under a hand drawn map of the alleyway where Jehangir's body had been found. Ara had been sitting at the table between the windows, so could watch his thought processes. Sherlock was in that most characteristic pose of his, hands steepled beneath his chin. Those who didn't know him would assume he was looking at the wall; those who did know him would recognise  _that_ look, the one he wore when he was actually deep in his Mind Palace.

"There you are. I've been looking for you, my dear. These are just…" The old woman ground to a halt, rather overcome. "Well, they are wonderful. You have a good eye."

Ara gave her a reassuring pat on the arm. "He was a fabulous photographic subject, once he decided to ignore me."

Her comment drew a soft laugh from the other older woman standing next to Mrs Hudson. "How you ever got him to allow you to take these is beyond me, Lady Arabella. He never let anyone near him with a camera at Parham."

Mrs Walters continued. "Your photos down stairs are all wonderful, but, well….these are different. You were very kind to invite me. I have always wondered what he actually got up to in his work. Now I know, thanks to you and your camera."

Mrs Hudson gave Mrs Walters a smile. "And I have to thank you, Ara, for arranging it so I could meet again the woman who really  _was_  his housekeeper. There wasn't the time at the funeral, but tonight we've been comparing notes on the care and feeding of a Sherlock." The two women shared a conspiratorial look.

Ara's attention was distracted for a moment. At the far end of one of the L sides of the room, Sally and Lestrade were standing in front of the Country Life photo. Sally was gesturing to the two small dead birds dangling from Sherlock's finger. Lestrade was trying to explain something to her, but Ara couldn't hear it at this distance. Mike Stamford was also in this section, seated on the low wooden bench, looking bemused at the photos on one wall. Molly Hooper was sitting at the other end of the same bench, but facing the other wall, considering the images intently.

This section of the exhibition particularly pleased Ara. Instead of static printed photos, there were four frames on the two walls, showing a series of digital photos, each displayed for about thirty seconds. There were five images on each frame, moving in rotation at different times. It was a technique she'd seen in a New York Gallery; it worked to maximise the number of images shown in a small amount of wall space. The left wall's photos had been taken while at Parham four years ago; the right were from Baker Street, during the two week period of her work placement, some four months before Sherlock's death. They were all of Sherlock- some were close-ups, others were more about the way he inhabited his spaces.

She slid onto the bench next to Molly, taking note of the pensive look. Ara said gently, "Is it too much? You look as if this is upsetting you."

Molly was startled out of her reverie, then blushed pink. "Um, no…don't mind me. It's just…well…I never saw him at Baker Street much. Just an awful Christmas drinks party that Mrs Hudson organised, where he said something horrible, and then apologised." There was something in that memory that made the Pathologist blush, before continuing, "These photos…" She gestured to one that was of Sherlock at the kitchen table, the harsh fluorescent light emphasised the pale skin, dark hair; the cheekbones cast shadows as he was bent over the microscope and his long fingers deftly slipped another slide onto the instrument's stage.

"Well, they remind me of…" She broke off and sat up straighter. "Oh, THAT one! Can you stop it on that one for a moment?" Molly was already on her feet and had crossed to the wall, as if frantic to stop the image from disappearing. Ara followed and touched a rocker switch on the side of the frame, freezing the rotation of images.

In the photo, Sherlock was seated at the table between the two windows, amidst the usual tangle of stuff that cluttered every available space in the living room. He wasn't looking at the camera. The expression on his face was sad, a small furrow between his eyebrows and a slightly distressed set of his mouth that made him look vulnerable.

"He's looking at John." Molly whispered this.

Ara nodded, recalling the scene. "Yeah, he was. That expression- it was there for just a second before he closed down. I was in his chair; he didn't know I was taking pictures because my SLR has a mute mode. In fact, I didn't even see it at the time. It was only later, when I slowed the frames down that I caught it." She looked more carefully at the Pathologist, who was biting her lip. "How did you know who he was looking at?"

Molly finally looked away and Ara saw that she was on the verge of tears. "He did that… near the end. When he thought John wasn't looking. He knew he was going to miss him but didn't quite know what to do with the feeling."

Ara was struck by the haunted look on the Pathologist's face, and wished she had her camera. There were times when she could only really see things if she was behind the lens, and this was one of them. She knew there was some special meaning here, and wished her memory was as good as her camera. Instinctively, Ara knew Molly was saying something important.

"Sentiment? Don't be absurd." Ara tried to give it the slightly sneering superior tone that Sherlock had used.

It raised a wry laugh from Molly. "Yeah. Like feelings were something vaguely alarming and dangerous. So  _not Sherlock._  Or, at least, he liked to think of himself as above all that. But, well…this says otherwise."

"I think I know what you mean. Look at this one." Ara turned to the next frame and cycled through two more photos before she stopped on a third. This one was of Sherlock sitting at the table, totally absorbed in something on his laptop. The room was dim, and his face was lit strangely by the colour of whatever was on the unseen screen. Beside and slightly behind the chair, John was standing, having just deposited a plate of pasta that was being totally ignored. He was looking down at Sherlock with that  _look_ , the one that was a combination of frustration and worry, leavened with just a hint of exasperation. Those that knew the pair well would recognise it instantly.

She'd seen it herself when she first met them at Parham. Back then, John's expression also managed to capture his amusement. To Ara, watching them together at Parham had been fascinating. Their connection was so evident, but it defied description. They were men, after all. In Ara's experience, blokes just never, ever talked about things like that. The one time Ara had asked Sherlock whether he fancied John, he had looked at her like she was an alien.

But looking at this last photo she had taken of the two of them together three years later when she was at Baker Street, it showed that the balance between the two men had shifted somehow. It was as if Sherlock was aware of John's presence, but was purposefully ignoring him, distancing himself from the doctor. And John's frustration and disappointment with that showed, too.

"Is it too revealing? Too personal?" Ara was worried. "Just tell me; that's what this evening is all about. Anything you see here tonight that you think is too private; just tell me, and I will remove it from the exhibition."

 _Now the hard part._  As much as she loved these photos, and thought that they were some of her best work, she'd promised herself that if any of the people she'd invited up here refused to let any of the images be shown, that she would not open the top floor to the public. They all had the right to say no; after all, they were the people closest to Sherlock. "Doctor Hooper- if you think that  _none_  of these should be shown to the public, then they won't be."

Molly was looking down at the floor, shaking her head firmly. "No, no- please, don't misunderstand me. The world should see him like this. It's important. I…" She faltered a bit, but then nodded to herself, before looking Ara straight in the eye. "I just wish John was here. He should see this."

Ara shrugged. "He was invited. I don't know what more I can do. Maybe if you and the others asked him to come, he might agree to it, but clearly I wasn't persuasive enough." She slid along the bench until she was closer to Mike. "Perhaps you can help us, Doctor Stamford. After all, you've known John Watson longer than anyone else here tonight. Could you try to talk him into coming? I could open the Gallery just for him, if he wanted privacy."

"It's Mike. Calling me 'Doctor' makes me think of you as one of my students. And none of my students can take pictures like these. Thanks for inviting me. I'm not sure why I deserve such special treatment, but I'm glad to see these."

"I invited you because apart from his brother and Lestrade, I think you knew Sherlock longer than anyone. You let him use the lab at Barts. He…appreciated that fact."

Mike snorted. "No, he didn't. He just took it and me for granted. And that was okay by me. We got along alright. But, I can't claim to have  _known_  him. Is there anyone here who really could? " He looked back at the wall of Parham portraits, which was showing a series of profiles of Sherlock, including one with a black eye. He smirked. "How'd he get that shiner? Someone finally get fed up with that rapier tongue of his?"

Ara gave an answering smirk. "Actually, he was saving someone's life at the time. He and an assassin had a fight in a loo, and there was no room to manoeuvre. Managed to get a knife wound in the thigh and an elbow in the eye."

Mike looked back at her with a bemused smile. "I suppose John Watson sewed him up then?"

"Yes. Apparently, it was easier than trying to get Sherlock to a hospital."

Mike's smile faded. "That's the problem, right there in a nutshell. In the end, John couldn't save Sherlock, and that fact tore him up. He's cut ties now with everyone and everything that could remind him of his loss. Me included."

Molly's surprise made her blurt out, "I don't understand; they were so close. How can John just…forget?"

"I didn't say that. John Watson will never forget Sherlock. He wouldn't want to. But, he doesn't want to talk about it. He's a private man. Sherlock was very good for him."

Both young women looked startled at that comment. Ara put it into words. "Everyone says it was the other way around- that John was good for Sherlock."

"Yes, well, I can tell you that John Watson needed Sherlock more than Sherlock needed John Watson. I saw what Afghanistan had done to him, and I saw how his knowing Sherlock got him over it."

Ara shook her head in frustration, the down-lighter catching the blonde highlights in her hair. "Then he should be here."

An awkward silence fell between them, broken by a polite cough behind her. She turned to see Philip Anderson, who was holding the catalogue.

"Sorry; it's just…I'd like to talk to you about one of the photos over there. I'd like a copy, but the catalogue doesn't have any prices for these photos in it, and I can't afford much these days."

She mouthed a silent apology to Mike and Molly, and followed Anderson over to the other part of the L shaped room. This was the longer side, and one whole wall was filled with the same crime scene as downstairs, only these photos put Sherlock in the centre of the action- where he belonged. The alleyway, the forensic lab, the mortuary, even New Scotland Yard.

Anderson had come to a halt in front of one from the alleyway. He was in it, too, crouched down in his blue forensic suit, holding something in his gloved hand. Sherlock was bending over, his Belstaff coat a shadowed darkness broken only by the paleness of his face, looking intently through his pocket magnifier at the object in Anderson's hand.

Ara had heard that Philip had lost his position as a Crime Scene Examiner, due to the investigation that cleared Sherlock. He now sported a rather scruffy looking beard that would have compromised crime scenes.

"I want this one. I'll need it to show him that there were times when we did work well together."

Ara must have let her confusion show. "Show who?"

Anderson smirked. "Sherlock, of course. He's still alive. He didn't commit suicide."

She had that sinking feeling in her stomach, the one that comes when you realise that someone you're talking to isn't quite right in the head.  _Awkward_. And that thought must have showed on her face, too, because Anderson continued.

"No- I'm not some nutter who's deranged. Just think about it. The man you and I both knew- he'd  _never_  commit suicide. He didn't give a toss what the press said; he thought everyone was an idiot. Sherlock once told me he was a sociopath, and they don't commit suicide. He's just clever enough to have pulled off something that looked like it."

She didn't want to create a scene, but Anderson's total confidence was a bit unnerving. "Why would he do that?" she asked softly.

"Don't know." Anderson shrugged. "But he'll tell us when he's decided to come back. He won't be able to resist showing off how clever he was."

She decided to confront the issue that had nearly stopped her from inviting either Anderson or Donovan to the gallery. "You once thought he was actually committing the crimes, so he could look good solving them. What made you change your mind?"

Anderson gave a sheepish shrug. "Because he was right; I  _was_  an idiot. I didn't think things through properly. During the police investigation I realised I was wrong. I'm sure he'll point out that fact when I next see him. Probably with great glee, too."

"Being wrong cost you your job with the Forensic Service, didn't it?"

"I don't blame him for that. They offered me a back office position in a lab, but I didn't want it. Being unemployed gives me more time to study his cases. And now I see what I didn't want to see then. That he is a genius and I was lucky to work with him. I'm writing articles now. And I head up the London branch of the #SherlockLives campaign. Just so you know; I'm not the only one who thinks he's still alive."

She was torn. Her own reaction when she'd heard the news from her mother- well, it mirrored Anderson's. At first, she just couldn't believe it was possible. She'd said as much on the phone to her mum, and told her that she wouldn't attend the funeral. In any case, she had only just arrived in New York, and was just starting the internship. Her mother had tried to argue with her that she needed to come back, to pay her respects, to be there for his brother, but Ara had refused.

"Mum- Sherlock would  _hate_  a funeral. Utterly pointless sentiment. And in any case, I don't believe it. He's just not the sort to commit suicide. Jumping off a bloody building? Ridiculous. If he was to ever do something so daft, he'd overdose. He's a chemist, for Christ's sake."

But as the weeks turned into months, and then a year, she wondered. Whatever had happened, Sherlock was  _gone_. And that left so many questions unanswered. She'd called Lestrade during the first Christmas after too many shots of vodka at a Manhattan club, and demanded the full gory details, becasue she didn't believe he had killed himself. When he told her about the phone call to John Watson from the roof, Sherlock's supposed 'note', her confidence wavered. But the rubbish about being a fake? She didn't buy that for one minute.

Looking at Anderson's utter conviction that Sherlock was still alive woke up these memories. It might also explain why her mum had said that Mycroft wouldn't talk about it, not a single word. That thought made her remember that both her mum and he were supposed to be up here. So, there was only one place they could be. And that made her intensely curious and nervous at the same time.

She nodded to Anderson. "You can have a copy. I've told everyone else. Any photo you want, I am happy to make you one. But do you mind having this one on display to the public? I should have asked you before now, but are you okay with it?"

He laughed. "Okay? Yes, of course. I'm honoured to be in the same shot as he is. Shows we did work together, and I'm now proud of that fact. As much of a hard time as he gave me, it's still the truth that I was on more of his crime scenes than anyone else in the Forensic Service."

She nodded. "Leave your address with Alistair at the door before you go and I'll send you one. Now, I hope you won't think me rude, but I need to find my mum. I think she's in the video room."

He nodded. "I saw them go in there just before you came up. It's a really cool show- he didn't realise you were doing it, did he?"

She shook her head. "No, he'd gotten so used to seeing me around with a camera that he just filtered it out. Didn't realise that the SLR can take video, too."

She headed for the door. At the point where the two sides of the L shaped room met, there was a door. It had once been an office, but she'd converted into a special viewing space.

She gave a gentle knock. "Mum? Can I come in?"

There was a pause. Then the door opened a crack, and her mum's voice was just audible. "Not yet. Just…give us a minute, will you? I'll tell you when it's okay." And the door shut again, leaving a startled Ara on the other side, wondering what the hell was going on in there.


	4. Chapter 4

Lady Caroline Herbert, Countess of Pembroke to give her the full title, was someone to whom patience came naturally.

But right now, she was finding that patience severely tested. She'd learned as a young girl that it made sense to wait until people were ready; then a persuasive word, gently said, usually got a better result than any demands shouted at the wrong time at the top of one's lungs. It required an astute judgment of when the timing was right, and she had learned it well for a woman who was only thirty eight.

So, she had been prepared to wait until Mycroft decided it was time to tell her just what had been going on over the past two and a bit years. If her patience had become a bit threadbare at times, it was more because she picked at things a bit, worried about what his silence meant. In the absence of an explanation, her mind provided too many possible reasons, all of which wore away at the fabric of her composure. In her darker moments- usually late at night, when she should have been sleeping but wasn't- she wondered if he would ever learn to trust her. Without that, there was no hope that their relationship would ever be more than a matter of mutual convenience. And she wouldn't settle for that.

That she had been prepared to wait this long was a measure of how she had come to love the man. Respect, appreciation and enjoying his company had come easily and very quickly. But the deeper affection? That had grown much more slowly. The measured pace suited her temperament as much as it seemed to his. The one and only time she had let her heart rule her head was when she was eighteen, and fallen head over heels for an earl. That he was a handsome sexual predator who turned every woman's head was part of the alchemy that led her to misread her own lust for love. She blamed her young self as much as she did her husband, and had repented in the years of their unhappy marriage, saved only by the fact that Arabella had come along nine months and ten minutes after the wedding. Looking back now, Caroline had few regrets. The heart-ache had been worth it in exchange for the extraordinary creature that was her daughter.

This time around, she was determined not to rush things.

But tonight even her patience was being tested. The light supper at the Diogenes Club passed pleasantly enough, but she knew by the way Mycroft was steering the conversation he did not want to talk about what they were almost certain to find at the exhibition.

Caroline bided her time. It would require delicacy but, at last, tonight she might just find out more about his brother's death, and why it had so affected him. Of course, outwardly there had never been any evidence of something so banal- in fact, that was part of the problem. She'd found the funeral unnerving. Mycroft was so unmoved by it all; totally closed down in terms of emotion. It worried her on so many levels. Could she have been so wrong about him? Beneath the aloof control, she believed that there was something more, something worth reaching.  _Let me in, Mycroft; I can help._

She'd actually said that to him on the night when she showed up at South Eaton Place, still so shocked by the news of Sherlock's suicide that she didn't think twice about driving up from Wiltshire just to be there for him. He'd thanked her for her kindness, but said he had no need of comforting or any such emotional release. She'd waited then, too- just sitting across from him in the chair opposite all through the night. He didn't speak again, until the dawn had come up and he calmly asked her whether she would like to join him for breakfast before he went to work.

After the shooting party at Parham, the couple had been frequently seen together, but certainly not doing anything as gauche as "living together". Concerts, dinners, state occasions- the company of the pair was eagerly sought, but she was selective. And just as happy to spend a private weekend at Parham, or he the same with her at Wilton. As a lover, Mycroft was not particularly passionate, but, again, that rather suited her. She had learned to curb her youthful urges; sex was now more about intimacy than gratification. Even in bed, Mycroft was attentive, polite and rather more considerate than any other man she had known. She stopped seeing other men, and politely declined the invitations from those who wanted to match her with some eligible bachelor or another. Mycroft wasn't "seen" with anyone else in the way he was with her, so she took that as a sign of encouragement.

She came to realise that Mycroft was like her father had been- a man who was always in control of himself. She'd known he was different from the very first evening they met, at a state function. He was also the first man since her father had died with whom she could have regular conversations and never get bored. That, too, made him worth waiting for.

As the months went by after Sherlock's funeral, her patience meant that she had time to observe Mycroft, to learn how to read through his inscrutable aloofness, to find his emotions in the slightest of things.

So, when they arrived at the Atlas Gallery she knew that he was tense and anxious. Outwardly, he was charming to Ara, and attentive to all the right people. Mycroft was a master at working a room, and he did so now to help her daughter. No one, apart from her, would have ever guessed that he was on edge.

Beneath that calm exterior, she could feel his tension rising as they circulated on the middle floor. There were tiny tells- a smile held for just a second too long, a tautness in his shoulder when he saw the hand pointing out the piece of evidence on the board at New Scotland Yard. Caroline had scanned the room the moment they reached it, and thought it empty of Sherlock. That's when she realised that the moment of truth would come on the top floor.

Up until they actually met earlier at the Diogenes for supper, she had been almost sure that something would intervene. The work came first, and he was not always master of its demands on his time. It would have been easy enough to manufacture some excuse to miss the exhibition. Over their courtship, engagements made had to be cancelled at the last minute due to some incident or another. She didn't mind. Given the respect she had for what he did, how could she complain? Her mother had never done so about her father's work in the security service, and her parents' marriage had lasted well. Caroline knew that she had the temperament to enjoy her own company whenever she had the opportunity. A marriage that required too much closeness would be confining, almost claustrophobic after her years of freedom.  _We're two loners, who actually enjoy each other's company._

The six months before Sherlock died had been the hardest. As his brother started attracting the attention of the press, and the cases made him into something of a celebrity, Caroline had watched Mycroft's demeanour change. That there was some bad blood between the two Holmes brothers was obvious, but he wouldn't talk about it.

Sherlock's suicide had blind-sided her, utterly. She had no idea that things had deteriorated to such an extent, but the aftermath was almost more difficult to understand. She thought he might open up to her about it; survivor guilt often broke down barriers. To her surprise, Mycroft was unmoved by it all. And others seemed to applaud this as a form of distancing himself from his brother's disgrace. Mycroft Holmes was still as highly thought of in the places that matter as he ever was. He'd escaped being  _tainted_  by the stories of Sherlock being a fraud. He simply carried on, business as usual, and refused to answer any question from her about what had happened. After the first month, she stopped trying and went back to the waiting game.

They had done the rounds of the Gallery's middle floor, and she caught his eye, an unspoken question in her sideways glance up the stairs. He nodded, but the tightness of the gesture alone told her that the tension had cranked up another notch. Across the room, she could see Ara talking to the new Metropolitan Police Superintendent of Detectives, but her daughter broke off the conversation for a moment, an unspoken question was there in her eyes.  _Do you want me to come with you?_

As Mycroft turned to go up the stairs, behind his back, Caroline shook her head so that Ara would know not to follow.

As they went up the stairs, Caroline found herself almost wishing that his phone would ring, and they would both be spared. She found herself incredibly nervous. What would happen if a truth came out that changed what she thought of him forever?  _Waiting_  had become easier than  _knowing._

At the top of the stairs they were greeted at the door by a Gallery attendant, who checked their names off the list and opened the door for them. She glanced around the room, taking in the layout, the subdued lighting, the violin music, and the fact that there were seven other people in the room. She recognised only one of them- Mrs Walters, the Parham housekeeper- a fact that made her slightly uncomfortable.

Mycroft took her arm reassuringly and she was surprised to feel some of his tension easing. As the two of them made their circuit of the room, Mycroft introduced her to the other guests, and gave a brief explanation of who they were and what role they had played in his brother's life.

As they went, they examined Ara's photos of Sherlock. The one by the door of Sherlock looking at his homemade evidence board had prompted her to say quietly, "What ghastly wallpaper. I'm not surprised that he wanted to cover it up." It broke the tension a little and provoked a bemused look from Mycroft and a very quiet answer. "Don't upset Mrs Hudson. She was one of the few people willing to tolerate Sherlock."

As they moved into the first section, Mycroft introduced her to Martha Hudson, and Caroline greeted Mrs Walters, sitting alongside her. She recognised the images rotating on the left wall as the photos Ara had taken during the shooting party. She took longer over the right wall and its images of Sherlock in Baker Street. Three years separated the photos, and she saw changes in him. The angles of his face were sharper; there was more gravity in his manner from the rather bravura younger man she had met at Parham. They'd had little contact during the three years, and she was curious to see if she could find any signs of the mental turmoil that led him to take his own life.

As intrigued as she was to see the subject matter, however, she was also beginning to understand her daughter's style. While the Parham shots had been profiles and close-ups that emphasised the striking appearance of the younger Holmes, the Baker Street images actually revealed more about Sherlock's character. She found herself appreciating them on many levels- as an insight into the man, but also as an expression of Ara's skills as a photographer.

Yet, there was also a piece of her that was focused on Mycroft. She was watching him looking at the photos, and wondering what was going on in his mind. At the third frame along, she saw his pupils dilate slightly at the sight of a sad looking Sherlock, and Mycroft's next breath came a little quicker.

She took his arm. "What is it? What is it about this one, in particular?"

There was no reply for a moment. When the photo disappeared, to be replaced by one of Sherlock hunched over in his chair, long legs folded up and hugged to his chest, looking a bit miserable, Mycroft turned to her.

She could see he was annoyed, but he didn't speak.

"Mycroft? What is it?" She said it quietly, so no one else in the Gallery would hear them.

His lips drew into a tight line. Then quietly, "My brother was an idiot." He turned and walked on, leaving her behind, startled by the vehemence with which he uttered that judgement.

She caught up with him in the second area. This one was lined with the same subject matter as the crime scene shots downstairs. Only now, Sherlock was centre-stage. But unlike those photos, where the static subject had been surrounded by action, these managed somehow to reverse it. The other people in the scenes were still, but Sherlock was caught in full flow; the swirl of his coat, the gesture of his hand, the intensity of his gaze somehow defied capture in the single frame displayed. In her mind's eye, he kept moving after the shot had been taken. It was an odd sensation, and she looked at Mycroft to see if he caught it as well.

He seemed to have recovered his poise. "Lady Caroline Herbert, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan."

She gave the silver-haired officer a smile. "Thank you, Detective Inspector, for your willingness to have my daughter clutter up your crime scenes. As you can see, it was rather a formative experience for her as a photographer."

He looked at the wall and its photos. "We are very lucky that she was there. For someone so young, she has an amazing eye. I thought the ones downstairs were smashing, but these are even better. They bring him to life."

The black police woman standing with Lestrade shook her head. "Not as good as the video. That…well, it was spooky hearing him again."

Caroline was confused, and apparently, so was Mycroft, who asked, "Video? Is there some here at the Gallery?"

Donovan nodded, and pointed to the door between the two gallery areas. "In there."

Mycroft gave a tense smile and strode away to the door, opening it. He started to enter, but then remembered his manners, turning toward her and holding it open so she could come in, too. The door quietly shut behind them, closing automatically.

The room was small, with a dark screen on one wall, and a wooden bench, lit by a single ceiling down lighter. Behind the bench, a video projector was on a plinth set into the wall, a green blinking light showing it was on standby. They sat, and she glanced around before spotting the small button on the bench. She pressed it and the screen in front of them came to life in a dazzling display of flashing blue - a close-up of a police car's emergency lights. There was a siren in the distance. Then a slow pan away from the car to the darkness of an alley, and the portable lights surrounding a blue sheeted body. It was now familiar- the photos downstairs and up here on the top floor had obviously been of this scene.

There was a tenor voice asking a question- "So, what's it this time?" The question was put in a manner that was matter-of-fact, yet wary and a bit weary.

"Interesting," replied an emphatic baritone voice. Then the video cut to the back of a taxi, where Sherlock was swiping repeatedly on his phone, and John Watson was looking out the window at the dark street. "At least an eight," as Sherlock kept swiping.

From the camera angle, she realised that Ara must have been sitting in one of the cab's fold down seats, facing the passengers.

Then Sherlock glanced up, saw the camera, and glared. "Must you?"

Ara's voice replied, "Just filter me out. You do that to people most of the time. Do it now."

The taxi lurched around a corner with the video pitched at an odd angle, before righting itself. When it returned to Sherlock's face, he was looking back at his phone.

As the taxi came to a halt, the scene cut to the side of the body, where Sherlock was crouched on one side and John on the other. Over the next four minutes, Ara's camera and audio recorder caught the deductive process, as Sherlock uncovered fact after fact about a body that DI Lestrade had introduced as a unknown 'John Doe'. At two key points along the way, when Sherlock's thoughts seemed to stutter to a halt, John's questions re-lit the fuse and off he went again. In the background, the DI just muttered, "You'd better not be making this up, Sherlock."

That brought a snort of derision. "As ever, Lestrade, you see, but you do not  _observe_."

Then the scene switched to the garish fluorescence of New Scotland Yard's incident room, and Ara caught on camera the whole of Sherlock's deductive stream that ended in a dramatic flourish with him pointing to the crumpled take-away flyer, pinned to the board with blue tack. "And that is where you will find the murderer."

Lestrade and Donovan wore the expressions Ara had captured in the photo downstairs, but this video caught John watching, too, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed, as Sherlock summed up, "a truly ingenious plot".

The tall brunet turned to John with a knowing smirk and said, "It's beautiful," as if expecting applause.

Ara had zoomed her camera onto John's face, and she caught the expression of dismay. The doctor's tired voice replied, "No, Sherlock, a man  _died_. He was  _murdered._ That's not  _beautiful;_ it's horrible. You can't just filter that out."

Caroline watched as the camera zoomed out just in time to catch an eye roll from Sherlock, followed by a waspish retort: "Sentiment won't bring him back to life, John, nor change the lives that have been affected by his death. None of _that_ matters in the end." He sniffed, dismissively.

She heard a sudden intake of breath, and then Mycroft was on the move. He stood up, turned around, walked straight over the back of the bench and stabbed the pause button on the video projector with a sudden ferocity that stunned her. Still facing the wall, he then growled out a terse, "and _that_ is everything one needs to know about you, you bastard."

Caroline was shocked. She'd never, ever heard that sort of anger in Mycroft's voice. In fact, come to think of it, she'd only ever seen him angry like this once before- and that was at Sherlock, too, at Parham during the shoot dinner.

She stood up and went over to where he was facing away from her, his hand out on the wall as if holding himself upright. Despite the dim lighting in the room, she could see he was shaking in rage.

"Mycroft?...what is it? Why are you so  _angry_?"

There was no control left in the eyes that turned to meet hers, their dark blue blown wide with adrenaline-fueled anger.

"I… _DON'T_ lose my temper. Not ever, it's too dangerous." He was almost panting with the effort of trying to control his voice, and to stop from shouting. Then he looked over her shoulder at the screen where Sherlock's look of distain was caught in a frozen frame. He stabbed a finger at the image. " _He's_  the only one who has ever made me lose it."

Caroline was shocked again by the look of utter rage on Mycroft's face. Dismayed, she had no idea what to do. She had thought that tonight's exhibition of photos might help open up his grief at the death of his brother, allow her to finally understand that he loved his brother and grieved over his death. This  _anger was_  …something very different and totally unexpected.

"Tell me why.  _Why_  does he make you angry?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, as if doing so could eliminate the image of his brother. He breathed deeply a few times, trying to control himself.

"All of his life…  _all of it!_  I've tried to…. _really_  tried to accept his differences. To …not  _judge._ It's not fair, I told myself, he's not like other people." He ground to a halt. A few more deep breaths, then he started again. "A lack of empathy…it's the defining characteristic of someone on the Spectrum." He took a few steps away from her, seeming to calm down a bit.

"Sherlock never understood the consequences of his actions on other people. For decades, I've made excuses for him, tried to ignore things, said it couldn't possibly be his fault. But…this time, he's gone too far. I've run out of patience." That last word took on a hint of anguish. "I can't do it anymore. He's high functioning…He  _knows_ what this is doing to people…"

Caroline watched as he lifted his hand to his bowed head- two fingers on his forehead and his thumb came to rest on his cheek. A whisper came out, "It's too much to ask of me. I just can't do this anymore."

She was utterly confused. "Do  _what_? What are you doing that is upsetting you so?" She reached out and put her hands gently on his shoulders, wanting to provide some comfort to a man she realised was at the very edge of an abyss. "Tell me, Mycroft,  _please_. Whatever is going on, this is too much for you to bear alone. Let me help."

Before Mycroft could answer, there was a soft knock at the door.

"Mum? Can I come in?"

Caroline just closed her eyes in disbelief. Of all the times to interrupt- Ara's presence could destroy any chance she had of unlocking what was going on. She tried to get Mycroft to look at her, but he wouldn't lift his head.

She let him go, walked to the door and opened it a crack. Quietly, she said "Not yet. Just…give us a minute, will you? I'll tell you when it's ok." And then she shut the door again quickly, knowing that Ara would be startled by her behaviour, but not wanting to expose Mycroft to what her daughter would ask. Caroline had to know first.

She returned to Mycroft's side. When he turned to look at her, she saw that the moment had passed. The mask was firmly back in place, as if it had never slipped in the first place.

"Mycroft? Tell me. What is it?"

"Forgive me, my dear. A momentary lapse. It's nothing to be concerned about."

"But, I  _am_  concerned." She had not seen any sense of guilt in him; she'd worried that he might in some way hold himself responsible for his Sherlock's death, that he had been unable to stop his brother. But that idea did not sit well with the display of rage that she had just witnessed. "This…anger, is it because he killed himself?"

"Don't be absurd. With him, suicide's nothing new- after all, he'd tried on at least two previous occasions to overdose."

It was like a bucket of cold water on her emotions. "But, surely…I mean…" she stumbled to a halt. "I'm sorry, Mycroft, I wish I could understand this but I don't."

He gave her a look that she could only describe as wistful. He reached out and put a gentle hand to stroke her cheek. "Nor should you. It's not fair of me to have said anything. Your peace of mind is too important to me. I care too much for you to burden you with things that cannot be resolved. Please, my dear, just forgive my outburst." His hand dropped and he brightened, his posture returning to its usual stature. "And we have duties to perform. Tonight is Ara's night, so let's not keep her waiting."

Caroline knew that she'd lost the chance. The moment when he might have trusted her enough was over. She looked at the screen, frozen on its close up of Sherlock's face. "I'm sorry he's dead," she finished, a bit lamely.

"Yes, well, all lives end. Caring for him was not an advantage. He never appreciated it."

Before she could react, Mycroft crossed to the door and opened it, walking through to find a wide-eyed Ara surrounded by the other guests. Caroline followed him through and stood blinking in the brighter light.

Mycroft went across to her and planted a chivalrous kiss on the young woman's cheek. "Congratulations, Lady Arabella. You have captured the very  _essence_  of Sherlock. The photos are wonderful, but the video is just perfect." He smiled and turned to Caroline. "I'm sure your mother will agree with me that you are very observant, indeed, and that we are fortunate to be able to see your skill and artistry. A commendable exhibition."

"Hear, hear," echoed Lestrade. The others around Ara nodded, offering their congratulations, too.

Ara's face showed the conflict. A part of her seemed to want to accept their plaudits, but there were lingering suspicions, too. "You're sure? It's okay to let others see this? I mean, if you have any doubts at all, I can drop anything you don't like, or even the whole of this floor."

"I wouldn't dream of interfering. Your work should be seen. The more people understand just what Sherlock was, the better." Caroline watched as Mycroft gave her daughter a smile of encouragement. But behind it, she saw the pain in his eyes.

Caroline could only contrast that look with the heat and emotion she had just witnessed in the video room. Mycroft did care about something, and whatever it was that so distressed him about his brother was something that he wanted to protect her from. She gave a patient sigh.  _Back to waiting._  She hoped it would be worth it, someday.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "special edition" of a series of one off chapters in the Ex Files, a series that is over on FanFiction, but which will be finding its way over here at some point in the autumn. I have brought this four parter Ex File early, because Kittyhawk57 asked about Ara.


End file.
